Five Times One of the Avengers Met One of the Wayne Kids
by CaraLee934
Summary: And One Time the Other Avenger Met an As-Good-As-A-a-Wayne Kid
1. The Abandoned - 1999

_The extended Grayson family, which consists of John's brother Richard, his wife Karla, and their son Johnny is from Young Justice._

_Clint is twelve, Dick is eight, Barney is sixteen, and Johnny is fifteen._

_**And I own neither DC nor Marvel. (If only!)**_

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><p>"Hey!"<p>

Clint risked taking his eyes off of Barney's angry face and curled fists long enough to see who had interrupted. No one ever interfered from Carson's.

The teenager standing there, arms folded across his chest, blue eyes glaring at Barney, isn't from Carson's, but he doesn't look like a townie either. He must belong to the bigger show they're working with while in Gotham, Haly's International.

Barney sneers back at him, seemingly unintimidated, even though the boy is almost his size (a lot bigger than Clint) and has plenty of muscle.

"Get lost, Grayson. Don't poke your nose into other's family business."

Grayson's glare deepens and he unfolds his arms. His skin is several shades darker than theirs, making him a little harder to see in the fading light if it weren't for the white hoodie he wears, and he has a look that fits what Diana the contortionist described once as "exotic".

"I'm not sure about you," Grayson says evenly, taking a step closer. "But around here we don't beat up on our families."

He has an accent, though Clint can't place it other than it sounds vaguely eastern European, like Anastasia the horseback acrobat, who is Russian and showed Clint how to do a backflip back when he and Barney were just roustabouts. Before Clint became part of the show.

Grayson takes another step, so that he is almost toe to toe with Barney.

There is a long moment where they stare at each other, before Barney backs off and, with a huff, storms off in the direction of Carson's camp.

Clint hesitates a second too long before following, and finds his head being tilted to the side by surprisingly gentle hands as Grayson inspects the forming bruise.

"Why don't you come with me and we can get some ice on that?"

And Clint's brain stutters to a stop because he's not completely stupid and as soon as Barney called the other teenager "Grayson" he'd made the connection to "The Flying Graysons" a world-famous family of aerialists. Haly's star attractions.

Grayson flashes him a brilliant grin, his teeth white enough to be easily seen in the gloomy dusk that seems customary to Gotham.

"It's almost dinner time anyway, and _Majka_ always makes too much _gulaš."_

Clint takes a step back, eying the older boy suspiciously. "Why?" he asks, _why are you being nice, why do you care?_

The grin dims a little but doesn't go away completely. "Because if I treated my cousin the way your brother was treating you, my _Dat_ would tan my backside." He's completely serious now. "Hitting on people just 'cause they are smaller than you, that isn't okay."

The grin comes back as if it never left. "I'm Johnny Grayson." He sticks his hand out and Clint, overwhelmed and (despite himself) drawn in by Johnny's infectious attitude, shakes it.

"Clint Barton."

It's only a short walk to the Grayson's trailer and Clint can't help but be surprised. He would have thought a world-famous act like them would have somewhere a little nicer to live than a cramped travel trailer with three beds and no door on the toilet and a camp shower hung up outside.

Johnny must notice his confusion because he laughs. "That's my parent's bed." He points to the alcove that extends out of one side of the main trailer. "That's mine." A bench bed, sandwiched in between his parent's bed and the tiny little refrigerator next to the door. "And Uncle John and Aunt Mary's." the opposing alcove. "Dickie bed-hops."

"Dickie" proves to be Johnny's cousin, an eight year old who looks about six, can twist his limbs into impossible positions (and Clint thought _he_ was flexible) and doesn't speak English.

Or rather, doesn't speak _only_ English. Clint thinks that he can understand maybe one word in ten out of the cheerful chatter that the little boy bombards him with.

Johnny laughs harder.

"Dickie doesn't really speak much English," he explains. "We've only been back in the US for a few weeks and he prefers _Romani_ over any other language anyway." He ruffles the kid's hair in a gentle way that reminds Clint painfully of how Barney used to be. "He understands most of it though, just doesn't talk it back at ya." (Apparently that is what happens when a kid spends the first seven years or so of their life traveling around Europe with a circus full of people who have English as a second language.)

The hair ruffle switches to a noogie, and Clint watches in amazement as Dickie bends and contorts out of his cousin's grip, before flipping up to perch on the small counter beside the sink and watch Clint with a curious face like a little bird.

The adult Grayson's are great. Not asking Clint awkward questions about the bruise on his cheek. (Though from the way Mr. John and Mr. Richard exchange glances he thinks they will someday soon.)

Mrs. Karla, Johnny's mom, refills his bowl with _gulaš_ twice, making a comment about how thin he is. Mrs. Mary, Dickie's mom, asks him gentle questions about his act, seeming genuinely interested and not just like she is being polite.

Sitting with them, outside around a fold-out table on camp chairs, watching Dickie do back flips and chase his father around the campfire as he munches on the sweet roll he'd been given for dessert (it has some Croatian name Clint can't remember) he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't mind if he and Barney could stay with them instead of Swordsman.

_Two nights later, as Clint crouches in the shadows and watches Dickie cry over the broken bodies of his family, calling them in languages Clint doesn't understand, he knew it could only ever be a dream. He ruined families. He didn't get to be a part of them._

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><p><strong>AN:** **Please note that the only languages I am fluent in are American English and American Sign Language. With that in mind, if you see a mistake in my not-English, please let me know so that I can correct _it._**  
><em><strong>***<strong>_  
><strong><em>Majka<em> is Croatian for Mother/Mama and _Gulaš_ is Croatian for Goulash, an eastern European stew.**  
><strong>Dat is Romani for Dad<strong>


	2. The Forgotten - 2002

_**Natalia Romanova is seventeen, Timothy Drake is five going on forty.**_

_**I don't own 'em!**_

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><p>Madeline Leanne Quinn is stylish, flirtatious, and confident. She moves with ease among the academic and social elite gathered at the gala being held in the small mansion on the outskirts of Gotham City.<p>

The hostess, Janet Drake, is engaged in conversation (tense, unpleasant to both parties) with Bruce Wayne, prince of Gotham, (age twenty-nine, playboy, one of the three wealthiest men in America) as the man's ward, Richard Grayson (age eleven, orphaned at eight, taken in by Wayne five months later) stands by looking bored.

It is Janet's husband however that is occupying the attention of her mark. Petrov Illyich. Her handlers at Красная комната had not told her why he must die, only that he must.

"It'll be at least ten more minutes before they are finished."

Madeline is actually startled. She hadn't heard the child approach her.

Timothy Drake, (son of Jackson and Janet Drake, age five, surprisingly little information on him, beyond the fact that he was apparently some sort of genius and was rarely seen by anyone) looks up at her shyly with little blue eyes, somehow managing to convey an earnestness that often escapes those ten times his age. "Why are you here?" he asks her.

Madeline blinks. "I am attending your parents' party." She says, sounding just like any of the other social-climbers present, mindless bemusement.

The Drake boy looks unimpressed. "No you are not." His diction is oddly precise for a child of his age, with the standard accent of the Gotham upper class. "You act aimless, but you are very focused on the wrong things. My father and Mr. Illyich especially. If you were really who you say you are, you would be trying to get Mr. Wayne's attention. Or Mr. Houtman's at least." He tilts his head to indicate the billionaire and the lawyer in turn. "And you know who I am." He gave her a small smile that was almost heartbreaking in the resigned shrug that accompanied it. (If only she had a heart to break.)

"No one knows who I am. I do not usually attend these events and my parents do not take me with them on their trips either."

(Janet and Jackson Drake are archeologists. Seldom at home in Gotham. They spend approximately eleven months of the year flying around the world.)

The smile goes away and Timothy looks dejected. "It's hard being invisible sometimes."

For some reason Nata-no, Madeline, puts her hand on the child's shoulder.

"And sometimes it is good to be invisible." She says, softer than she knew she could. "It is when you stand out that people want to hurt you more."

Timothy thinks about that for a moment before nodding solemnly. "That's true. But at least it means they haven't forgotten you." He looks over to where Illyich is taking his leave of Jackson Drake.

"I want to be grown up." He says quietly as she turns back to make her excuses. "So I can travel with my parents. Maybe they'll notice me then." She opens her mouth to say goodbye. "I want to be free, like you."

The words freeze in her throat and time seems to stand still as she stands there. The earnest gaze of a five year old child pinning her in place as surely as Зимний Солдат has ever pinned her to the mat.

She knows without looking around that Illyich is leaving the room, her window is closing. It must show on her face because Timo-the Drake Boy's own face turns blank.

"You have to go, don't you."

She nods, mutely. She has a mission to complete, and less than a week left before she must return and make her report. Because she is not free.

_But as she slips from the room she knows that she will wait to complete her mission. Wait until Illyich is no longer in Gotham where the child could hear of his death. And maybe, someday…Freedom is a dangerous thing to think of, but perhaps it is not impossible. _

_One thing she knows for sure, even the mind-wipe that will follow the completion of the mission will not be enough to make her forget Timothy Drake. She has learned how to hid things in the recesses of her mind as the wipes became less thorough these past couple of years. Little things, like the name she thinks might be hers. _

_The blue-eyed child of Gotham will be one of them._

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><p><strong>Красная комната - The Red Room<strong>

**Зимний Солдат - The Winter Soldier**


	3. The Fugitives - 2005

_**Bruce is mumblyage, The Other Guy is two (we are three years away from The Incredible Hulk (2008)) and Jason is 10. In just a few more months he's going to be jacking the tires off of a certain vehicle that someone had the brilliant idea to park in Crime Alley.**_

_**Does it look like I own it?**_

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><p>Bruce much prefers to avoid towns, forget about big cities like Gotham, especially in America. He's starting to get to the point where he thinks he can control the Other Guy so that he won't destroy buildings and possibly kill people but he isn't sure and doesn't really want to risk it.<p>

He hasn't been back to the US since he first left it two years ago, after The Experiment went so very wrong. He doesn't want to be here at all, but the last trucker he'd ridden with coming down from Canada had stopped here and he figured he might as well stock up before continuing South to Mexico.

If he didn't know better, he'd think he was in the slums of Southeast Asia, instead of the poorer district of "America's Greatest City". It has the same, stacked up, run-down look as the third world countries he's traveled to in the past. It has a proper name, he's been told, but no one can tell him what that name is. They call it "Crime Alley" and that covers it pretty well.

If you climb to the roof of the "abandoned" apartment Bruce is crashing in (along with some thirty other people) you can see the high-rise apartments and skyscrapers that house the cities more prosperous inhabitants and their businesses, Wayne Tower rising above the others in a grand display of the peculiar, gothic-like style of architecture that comprises most of the city.

There are even signs of it in The Alley. Like that gargoyle that fell off of an old church (long since abandoned) and now just lays on the ground next to the sidewalk. It's one of the ugliest things Bruce has ever seen, with a snarling mouth and bulging eyes and the remains of what had once been bat-like wings.

He passes by it every day on his way back to the apartment from the shelter he's been helping out at until he decides to move on. It usually has some new version of graffiti on it, it's a favorite target of the local kids. Though the pre-teen sitting on it as if it was a park bench, smoking a cigarette, is a little unexpected.

He stands there, looking at the kid, for a long moment.

The boy looks back.

Eventually the kid rolls his eyes and exhales a cloud of smoke. "Whatcha starin' at, weirdo?"

"Nothing." Bruce ducks his head, eyes on the ground. He can hear the kid snort.

"Uh huh. Look, I ain't gonna quit the smokes anytime soon, so you can skip the lecture."

Bruce jerks his head up, a denial forming on his lips. The kid quirks an eyebrow at him and he sighs and tips his head in admission. "They really aren't good for you though."

The kid laughs, a bitter, harsh sound. "Yeah, well, think of all the much worse things I could be smokin'."

Bruce frowns at him. He looks like your typical Gothamite white trash, but he has more life in him than any other person Bruce has interacted with in the five days he's been in the city. "And what do your parents think of that." He nodded his head at the cigarette.

Something, he wasn't quite sure what, fluttered across the kid's face before it fell back into his previous sarcastic expression. "Mom OD'd a couple months back. Ol' man ain't been around for years. Good riddance." He stubbed out the cigarette and flicked it into the dried out grass in front of the church.

"So why aren't you in a foster home?" Bruce asks.

The kid looks at him like he's an idiot and Bruce concedes with a nod. He's been in this city less than a week and he's already picked up on the fact that the Children's Welfare system is little more than a front for organized human trafficking. He searches for something to say but is saved the trouble.

"So whatcha runnin' from?"

Bruce starts in surprise. "Nobody! Why would I be running from something?"

The kid gives him a supremely unimpressed look, complete with raised eyebrow. "You ain't from Gotham." He points out. "But no one comes here 'cause they want to." He rummages in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a lighter and another cigarette. Waving Bruce away at the same time. "Nev'mind. It's stupid though." He glares as he lights the cigarette, his enunciation impeded. "Runnin' never fixed anything."

Bruce just sighs. "Those will kill you, you know. That isn't just something people say."

The kid's glare ramps up another notch. "This is Gotham, Mister. Take yer pick from what's gonna kill me. At least I ain't runnin' from any of it like a coward."

"Run so that you may live to fight another day." Bruce muses and is slightly gratified at the annoyed look the kid gets. Petty perhaps, but the child is making it hard for Bruce to keep his cool.

_That was the end of the conversation, but Bruce never forgot the scrawny, battered little boy with the bitter eyes. He hopes he found something better._

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><p><strong>And now the most depressing parts are behind us. On to the not-cheerful-but-not-super-depressing-either chapter!<strong>


	4. The Princes - 2008

_**This takes place while Tony is in Afghanistan.**_  
><em><strong>If asked how old he was, Tony will lie.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Damian Ibn al Xu'ffasch is currently at the ripe old age of six. He's only just started going out and about with his mother occasionally. He has another two years before he get's dropped off in Gotham.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Also, mild warning for Tony's mouth. (Even though it is internal.) I censor him and it still comes out like that.<strong>_

**I do not own Iron Man. I definetly do not place any claim on the al Ghuls. I like my head where it is thank you very much.  
><strong>

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><p>Tony is awakened by shouting and the sounds of the door to the cave being opened. He barely has time to sit up and exchange worried glances with Yinsen before the door bursts open and they go through the now familiar (but no less nerve wracking) procedure of hands-in-the-air-guns-to-their-heads. There are no yells and insistence for Yinsen to translate though, just a silent stillness. Tony notices that the Ten Ringers (as he's taken to calling them in his head) are interspersed with…ninjas?<p>

Tony looks around the room, confused. The men, Ringers and ninjas alike are just standing there. Waiting.

But for what?

There is movement in the doorway and in steps the last thing Tony expected to see out here.

A beautiful woman.

One of the most beautiful women that Tony has ever seen. (And he has seen a _lot)_ She is tall and elegant, wearing a long, flowing black dress that emphasizes her figure, her hair falling loose down her back to her hips, covered only by a simple scarf.

Her features are…proud is the best word Tony can think of, and her large, brown eyes scan him from head to toe as she walks straight up to him.

Normally, Tony would flirt, but that'll have to wait for some time when he isn't terrified out of his mind. She grabs his chin (and there is nothing gentle about her grip, he'll bruise, he just knows it) and turns his head from side to side, before releasing him with a scornful sneer. She turns to talk with the leader of the Ten Rings as if Tony was nothing more than another of the many pieces of hardware in the cave.

He tries not to sigh in relief.

The two talk for several minutes. Tony hears his name and "Jericho" every so often. Nervous, he glances over to the table where the plans and first pieces of the reactor and Iron Man suit are and freezes.

There is a preschooler dressed as a desert ninja (including a miniature katana strapped to his back) rifling systematically through everything.

His first thought is an indignant "Some kid is touching my stuff!" (Which is one of the first Tony-like thoughts to break through his shock since his capture.) The second is "at least some punk kid won't understand that the plans or the parts assembled will not build a Jericho missile." The third is "Oh crap," when the kid glances up and eyes that are an incongruous light blue in the baby Arabian face meet Tony's and he knows that the brat, preschooler or not, understands exactly what it is he is building.

He distantly thinks he might be marginally less freaked out by this realization if the kid showed some kind of emotion about it. Smugness, glee, anger, something, anything. Instead he remains blank-faced, except for a brief flicker of what might be…curiosity?

The woman says something in a sharp tone and sweeps from the cave as dramatically as she had entered, the kid following her without a second glance at Tony or the contents of the work table. The ninjas and Ten Ringers follow quickly (and silently in the ninjas' cases) leaving Tony and Yinsen once more alone.

Tony takes a moment to bring his heart-rate back to semi-normal, before lugging his car battery over to the work table. "What," he pants, dropping the battery to the tabletop rather harder than he probably should, considering it is the only think keeping him alive at the moment. "The hell was that about?" He can't quite bring himself to glare at Yinsen, who almost looks scared for real for the first time since Tony met him.

"I am not sure," He answers in a low tone, not taking his eyes off of the door. "But they called the woman 'The Demon's Head,'" He seems almost to tear his gaze away from the door. "The leader of the most dangerous assassins the world has ever known. A myth."

"What about the kid?" Tony asks, deciding that he'll come back to the possibility of some mythical organization of assassins being involved in his imprisonment later. "Who's he?"

Yinsen frowns. "I'm not sure. They only talked about him once, and they called him Ibn al Xu'ffasch."

There is a moment of silence.

"Which means?" Tony prompts impatiently.

Yinsen just looks confused. "It means 'Son of the Bat.'"

_Whoever the kid is, he must not have told anyone about the suit, because the plan goes off. Not well, but it goes and Tony thinks, as he sits beside Rhodey on the airplane, a twisting pain in his gut because of Yinsen, that maybe he'd just dreamed the whole thing._

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><p><strong>AN: So, due to Tony not speaking Arabic and whatever other languages the Ten Rings organization used, it was another English-only chapter.**  
><strong>Apparently, it is very difficult for me to write Damian from before his entrance into Dick Grayson's sphere of influence. Oh well. It wasn't originally going to be this long, and than Damian, being the mechanics geek that he is, decided to peek at the table.<strong>  
><strong>I do actually have an entire back-story for why Talia was there, short version is that she was checking up on one of their puppet organizations. Due to what she and Damian found there, they decided to leave the cleaning up to Tony and, eventually, Stane. She has bigger fish to fry.<strong>


	5. The Soldiers - 2013

_**This chapter takes place sometime in the spring after the alien invasion in New York.**_  
><em><strong>Steve has been working for S.H.I.E.L.D. since then, mostly with Natasha. He has about a year until Winter Soldier.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Cassandra Cain (Wayne) is eighteen. She refuses to tell me what she was doing in New York City, she's a lot like Natasha that way.<strong>_

_**I own neither the Batfamily nor the Avengers**_

* * *

><p>New York is still a resilient city, Steve is pleased to note. Less than a year later the cafe is up and running as though it had never been nearly destroyed by an alien invasion.<p>

Every table is occupied, he is dismayed to see. He's just come off three consecutive, rough missions and he'd barely been able to convince Agent Sitwell to give him a stop-over in New York on the way back to D.C. He didn't have long. A couple of the tables have empty chairs, one of them his usual table, the one with the best view of the skyline. One chair is empty, the other occupied by a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, reading. After a moment's hesitation, he approaches, aware of the fact that he is clutching his sketchbook in front of him like a shield. (not _his_ shield, just _a_ shield)

He stops a couple of steps away, really not wanting to loom over her, he knows he can be physically intimidating, he uses it to his advantage all the time in the field and when dealing with the politicians and bureaucrats, but he doesn't want to threaten a civilian. She looks up from her book and smiles at him.

Steve tenses slightly. Despite the smile, he feels like squirming under her gaze. There is something about her dark eyes that makes him feel as though she is seeing right through him into his very soul. Like a combination of Director Fury, Natasha, Peggy, and his mother, all put in one 5'5", 100-115 Lb. package. His instincts are screaming at him that this petite girl has the potential to be very dangerous.

"May I help you?" she is incredibly precise in the way she talks. She doesn't have an accent exactly, but Steve is pretty sure that English is not her first language. He smiles nervously back, trying to relax the muscles that have tensed even further under her scrutiny. He doesn't ignore the warning tingle of 'danger', but he resolves not to initiate conflict and hope he's just being paranoid as a result of too many covert missions.

"Um." He allows the stutter he has all but lost to re-emerge. (Not difficult outside of combat and official situations.) "I was hoping you would be alright with me sitting here." He gestures to the empty seat across from her, somehow knowing that his timid actions do not fool her. "All the other tables are full." He holds up his sketchbook. "I don't want to bother you, I just-"

"You may sit." She mercifully cuts off his ramblings and smiles again, softer this time, lifting her tea cup and taking a sip, the familiar aroma and gesture combining to remind Steve painfully of Peggy.

Physically, there is no resemblance between Peggy's soft brown (silver) curls and light blue eyes, and this girls jet black hair and eyes even darker. Peggy's fine English features and the Asian (Chinese he thinks) origins of…He doesn't know her name.

"I'm Steve." He introduces himself as he sits down, setting out his pencils and opening his sketchbook.

"Cassandra." Her smile has taken on a slightly mischievous cast, as if she is aware of his awkwardness and is amused by it.

Despite the superficial outer differences, she really does bear a strong resemblance to Peggy. There is an air about her, a confidence. Not arrogance, but a simple knowledge of her own capabilities and a no nonsense attitude. A sort of stillness that does not mean she is lazy, but rather as if she is merely resting until it is time to spring into action once more. The sparkle in her eye is the same too.

"Good book?" he asks. She reminds him so much of Peggy as she used to be that he can't bear to not talk to her. She holds the book up so he can see the cover. _Prince Caspian_, by C.S. Lewis.

"Very good." Her smile is small and sad now. "They are in a place that is both…familiar...and strange." The wistful way she says the words, despite her strange cadence, does not help with the way they twist something inside Steve.

"I know what that's like." He says quietly.

She nods. "It is hard. Being a soldier in-between battles."

He nods back, not questioning her understanding. "It's like looking at something you want with all your heart but know you can never have."

"There is…always another struggle. Rest, then more enemies." She continues, they are speaking in low tones, so that the people, the families and couples and simple people at the other tables around them will not overhear. Steve starts doodling on a blank page.

"It is not all bad," she adds. "Not if you find companions…friends, family."

He thinks of Peggy and Howard and Bucky and the Commandos and the Avengers and has to fight not to snap the pencil in two. There is a gentle touch as she rests her hand on his. He meets her eyes, too old for her face.

"They can show you how to…adjust?" her forehead crinkles on the last word. "That is correct, adjust?" He nods, mutely and she pats his hand before pulling back. "They can teach you how to live in-between."

She returns to her book and her tea and Steve absently receives his order of coffee from the waitress and sketches. And thinks.

_He doesn't draw any of his usual subjects. Instead, he captures the look of concentration on Cassandra's face as she slowly reads her book, her lips sometimes moving as she sounds out words to herself. He finishes three quick sketches and gives her the best one before she leaves._


End file.
